Our Honored Dead (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 4) by Lawrence Kelter Page B

pick up Sonellio. A courtesy call had been made to the Staten Island assistant chief of detectives, who was a longtime friend of Sonellio’s. He graciously extended investigative privileges to the three of us.
    I felt myself growing more and more tense as we got closer. I had the same directions in my hand as the other day and was reading out the turns: Richmond Road, Bancroft Avenue, and then finally Clawson Street. Toni was sitting on the front steps, blotting her eyes with a tissue. She looked up and I could see that her eyes were bright red. I had the door open before the car came to a stop. I ran to her. She stood, and I threw my arms around her. “Toni, I’m so sorry.”
    She began to cry. “Jesus, Stephanie, my girls used to babysit for them.”
    Gus joined us a second later. It was a truly terrible moment.
    The front door opened, and Sonellio stepped out. He was dressed in a dark suit. His expression scared me—I could see the enormous strain on his face. The timing was terrible—it seemed as if whatever time he had left had been cut in half by this new emotional nightmare. It was a hell of an ordeal for a mortally-ill man to face.
    Sonellio tugged on his tie to straighten it and then approached us. Toni looked at him with tears in her eyes and kissed him on the cheek. She recognized the look on her husband’s face: all business. It was time for her to step aside and let him do his job.
    “It’s cold out here,” Sonellio said to her. “Go inside. I’ll call you when I’m on my way home.”
    “You don’t have to call,” she said. “It’s only around the—” Toni started to shake. She gazed at us with a horrified expression on her face and then quickly ran into the house.
    Sonellio barely looked at us as he got into the car. The car doors slammed. The interior compartment was completely silent, silent in an unnerving way.
    “Did you bring the evidence?” Sonellio asked.
    “Yes,” I replied. Sonellio’s find had not yielded any meaningful results. The binoculars did not bare any fingerprints, and the prints on the tape were only partials that the lab was unable to match through IAFIS, the FBI-maintained Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System . “I’ll take them, thanks,” he said and held out his hand. I handed the evidence bags back to him. “I thought I was one step ahead of this bastard,” he continued “I wasn’t. We will find him.” There was no question as to his resolve. “This SOB killed my neighbor, his wife, and their two boys. I know that I have no right to ask for your help on this case, but I’m going to ask anyway.”
    “It’s all right, boss,” Gus said. “You don’t have to ask—whatever you need, you’ve got. We’re here for you.” I’m sure Sonellio assumed that we were working on other cases. It didn’t seem to matter to him.
    Sonellio reached over and patted Gus on the cheek. He rested his hand on my shoulder. I looked back—in that glance, he shared with me his most private thought. It was as if he was saying, one last time, okay? I nodded and turned away before I lost control. I just couldn’t deal with the implication—it was his way of saying goodbye.
    When we arrived at the crime scene, Sonellio surrendered the evidence bags to a crime scene investigator and related the circumstances under which the items had been discovered, ensuring that the chain of evidence had not been broken. Richard Forzo, the Staten Island assistant chief of detectives, arrived shortly afterward. He called out to the boss from the doorway. “Chief Sonellio.” They embraced for a long moment. Sonellio had known Forzo for years. He had appointed Forzo to the assistant chief’s position. “I’m so sorry, Nick. We’ll catch this son of a bitch. I promise you.” He took a step back. I saw that he was giving Sonellio a quick once over. It didn’t take much of an investigative mind to evaluate his current state of health. I saw Forzo’s expression become